On weekends, I spend hours looking at the ac vent blowing ice cold air into the small room that I have rented. The only furniture that I have in the house is a bed. I have a red Afghan rug near the bed so that my feet touch something warm when I wake up. On the bedroom door are some clothes hooks which the previous tenants have left behind on which hang my work clothes.
When I shift positions after a long time my lower back aches. I wince, wishing I could get my routine back, before settling down to stare at the billowing machine. The steady sound is almost like that of ocean waves. If I stay utterly still, I can forget my back pain and feel my weight melting off. Afternoons in my boxers, staring into corners, are becoming my routine.
I cannot blame my state on Chennai’s heat. There is nothing to blame. I do not think this is a sad state to be. This feels like an extended wait in the lobby of a general physician, waiting for an annual health check. There is no need for anxiety but there is a vague sense of dread and mortality.
There is a mild dreamlike quality to this state that is unsettling. I cannot seem to land on thoughts to analyze or memories to relish. All that I have seen, felt, touched, tasted, seem to pale into insignificance. In this small, artificially cold room, time seems to get colder. When I think of my family, I am happy. My daughter, my wife. The more I struggle to come to grips that I do not care about anything else, the more I am surprised at how few entities in life I care about.
I sometimes start to think about some or the other matters, but when I try to get specific I get bored. It is the case with any thought. I just want to somehow grasp the essences of broad fields and visualize a timeline of ideas, but I seem to slip into boredom, a sense of non-urgency. This is extended sleep paralysis. I seem to sense emotions, but I am unable to touch them. I try to analyze if this state is my escape from wanting to feel more. I have till now experienced emotions on the surface. I have felt fear, but not dread. I have experienced sadness, but not paralyzing depression. I have felt love, maybe not obsessively. I have wanted to be touched, but never begged for release.
Maybe I want to feel claws digging deep into my skin. I want to silently scream into ears with my sweat dripping down my face. I want to bestially lap at waterholes, not scoop and drink. I want to be choked, buried, cooked, and eaten. I want to look down at my hands trembling, but all I see are steady fingers, tamed over millions of years of evolution.